


Bound in Silver

by Freya_Ishtar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, EWE, F/M, M/M, Multi, Reposted Work, Romance, Threesome - F/M/M, UST, poly-fic, post-war AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-05-21 22:50:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14924351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freya_Ishtar/pseuds/Freya_Ishtar
Summary: Following the War, Hermione is shocked to find herself awarded ownership of Malfoy Manor, and all it contains . . . including two not-so-willing Death Eaters desperate to turn her position as the new Mistress of Malfoy Manor to their advantage





	1. Mistress of the Manor

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS A REPOST. I originally posted this fic a while back, pulled it because all my Dramione-inclusive plunnies died on me. But now they've been stirring back to life, so I decided to give them second chance.
> 
> Those who read these works before my mass Dramione Deletion (or who read these works in my Unfinished Dramione PDF), please note that aside from minor changes and editing fixes, the content of the previously posted chapters has not changed. All returning Dramiones will be update weekly until all previously-available chapters are posted. At that point, the fics will continue until completion, but will fall under my 'sporadic updates' label.
> 
> Bound in Silver Fancast: Alexander Skarsgard as Lucius Malfoy; Rami Malek as Harry Potter; Ryan Reynolds as Oliver Wood; Idris Elba as Kingsley Shacklebolt.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter, or any affiliated characters, and make no profit, in any from, from this story.

  

**Chapter One**

Mistress of the Manor

"I'm not certain I understand," Hermione said, her voice slipping out in a shocked whisper as she shook her head.

Exchanging a quick glance with Harry, she handed him the scroll before returning her attention to the Minister of Magic.

"What is there to not understand, Miss Granger?" Kingsley asked, wiping a hand across his lightly-bearded chin. He was too tired for this, just now, but he supposed she did deserve an explanation, if she felt she needed one.

"I _own_  Malfoy Manor! That's what the _bloody_  hell there is to not understand!"

Harry's brows shot up behind the wire rims of his glasses. "You own _more_  than just the Manor, Hermione. You own—"

"Harry, don't say it! I can't even—"

"Draco and Lucius Malfoy!" Harry barely noticed his best friend's discomfort as she just about squirmed in her seat. "Bloody hell. Why couldn't  _I_  get that kind of reward?"

Kingsley held in a chuckle as Hermione turned to face Harry, her jaw hanging open. "Oh, sure! As if you don't have enough rewards and accolades, as it is?"

Smirking, he closed the scroll and set it back atop the Minister's desk. "And here I thought you didn't want all this."

"I . . . I don't!" She shook her head, insisting, "I don't! I just am having trouble understanding this entire thing."

"Spoils of War," Kingsley said quietly as he gave a broad-shouldered shrug. "You are the person most grievously wronged by the  _direct_  actions of the Malfoy family, therefore, their wealth, properties, and all worldly possessions belong to  _you_."

Her shoulders slumped as she looked up at the towering man—who appeared, thankfully, far less towering, seated as he was at the moment. "And this explains actual  _people_  being included in said Spoils, _how_ , exactly?"

"This is a unique case, Miss Granger, as such, Ancient Wizarding Law was referred to in this ruling."

She nodded, not liking that she was talking back to the Minister of Magic, of  _all_  people, but she couldn't help herself. "Ancient? I think you  _meant_  to say Archaic and Draconian!"

The world had ended, yet they still stood. Things around them had been rebuilt—were rebuilding, still—but Hermione often felt that this new world order they'd been forced to create was more of a hearkening back to the Middle Ages than it was anything  _new_. The reemergence of an ancient law that gave her control of other  _people_ , like chattel, only proved her assertion.

Kingsley offered a tight-lipped grin. War Hero, or not, he was growing a bit weary of her temper. "As you are aware, the Dark Lord's murder of Narcissa Malfoy prompted her son and husband to turn on him, assisting us to win the War. However, their hand in _starting_  the War cannot be overlooked."

Again, she nodded, sinking back into her seat. It had become common knowledge that after the death of Narcissa Malfoy at Voldemort's hands—to punish Draco and Lucius for  _letting_  Harry and Hermione escape capture one year prior to the War's end—the surviving Malfoys had begun secreting information to the Light and sabotaging Voldemort's efforts in small, difficult-to-notice ways.

As such, the Malfoys had been the  _only_  Death Eaters to escape execution.

"While their . . . change of heart has spared them a harsher punishment, they are  _still_  war criminals, Miss Granger. Still responsible for so much of what happened." Kingsley shrugged, once more. "We knew they should be spared, but with Azkaban's destruction, imprisoning them became an issue. I understand if you do not want this sort of  _responsibility_ , however, if you do not accept ownership over them, the decision of what becomes of them will be turned over to the public."

Her chestnut eyes widened as Hermione held the Minister's gaze. She knew precisely what that meant. The whole of Wizarding Britain— _surviving_  Wizarding Britain, of course—had felt the sparing of the Malfoys an injustice. They wanted Draco and Lucius  _dead_ , and had made no attempt to hide it.

If she refused, she may as well swing the ax with her own two hands. She might despise them, but she didn't think she could live with their blood on her conscience.

Somehow she managed to sink even further back into the cushion of the chair as she let her eyes drift closed and shook her head. "Fine." She let out a shuddering breath as she steeled her nerves against what she was about to say.

Harry reached out, patting a comforting hand over one of hers. "I'm with you, 'Mione."

She forced a smile for his benefit—never mind that he was already running behind for a date with Oliver. "Let's . . . go have a look at my  _Spoils_."

_Finally_ , Kingsley thought, honestly grateful for the excuse this afforded him to escape the confines of the Ministry buildings. As the pair filed behind the Minister toward the fireplace to Floo to the Manor, Hermione met Harry's gaze over her shoulder.

His brows inched upward. "I know that look," he murmured with a playful grin. "What have I done wrong, now?"

She nodded pointedly toward the Grandfather clock beside the fireplace. "You know perfectly well what, Harry James Potter. You can't stand him up, _again_ , on my account!"

"Oh, don't worry," he said with a wink, placing his hands on Hermione's hips and her urging forward to fall into step behind Kingsley with gentle fingers. "I know how to make him forgive me."

She snorted a giggle—he'd become such a flirtatious creature after the War, she wondered how Oliver could stand it! Bad enough the whole of Wizarding Britain whispered that they were in some bizarre, but undeniably enviable, three-person relationship, as it was.

Not that they hadn't extended such an invitation to her—on more than one occasion—but Hermione was relatively certain she didn't need that sort of inevitable complication in her life. After all, she'd just been dealt a rather bizarre  _complication_ , and wasn't one enough for  _any_  witch's sanity?

Harry watched his best friend as she slipped from his grasp, and stepped through the wash of green flames. She was trying to put on a brave face, trying not to think about it at all, and he'd obliged her.

But he knew she was—at least a little—scared of setting foot back in Malfoy Manor. Even if she'd never admit it aloud.

* * *

Hermione swallowed hard as she walked, between Harry and the Minister, through the sitting room of the Manor, where the Network had let them out. As they exited the room, she couldn't help pausing mid-stride.

From where they stood, she could see the entryway to the drawing room.

Harry slipped a hand over hers, giving her fingers a reassuring squeeze.

She tore her gaze away, meeting his eyes, instead. "It's okay. I mean, it's . . . mine, right?"

His brow furrowed as he nodded. "Right?"

"Okay, then." Hermione drew in a deep breath and let it out slow from between pursed lips. "I'm having that room gutted."

"I suppose that is one way to handle things," Kingsley said with a shake of his head.

He led the pair through the house, the silence between the three strangely comfortable, under the circumstances. Miss Granger's declaration of intent regarding the room where Bellatrix Lestrange had tortured her had seemed to lift a weight from the young woman's shoulders. It didn't matter that a year and a half had passed since that night. Healing from traumatic experiences was rarely clean—or simple.

He hoped  _gutting_  that part of the house would give her the peace and closure she needed.

"Where, exactly, are we going?" Harry asked, dreading how certain he was that he already knew the answer.

"We have been holding them in the cellar, of course." Kingsley shrugged as they reached the door to the 'handy, in-house dungeon,' as Harry thought of it. "Should Miss Granger deign to allow them rooms, that is entirely her decision."

"Wait, wait," Hermione said, shaking her head as she held up her hands in a sign of surrender. "You acknowledge that they helped us win the War, then just throw them down there?"

Kingsley's mouth pulled to one side as he met the witch's gaze. "We did not throw anyone anywhere, Miss Granger. We placed them there to await your decision as to whether or not you would claim them. I assure you, they have basic comforts. We refuse to become the monsters we protect against."

She nodded, seeming appeased by the Minister's words.

Kingsley lifted a hand, knocking firmly on the cellar door. After a moment, footsteps sounded against stone, and then the door creaked open.

"You are relieved, thank you," he said to the wizard who stepped through.

The wizard nodded, sparing a moment to wedge a ring from his finger. He dropped it into the Minister's waiting hand, before nodding in greeting to Harry and Hermione and stepping around them to make his way to the fireplace where they'd entered.

"This is yours, Miss Granger."

Brow furrowing, Hermione took the piece of jewelry from him. "It's lovely," she said, admiring the way the rounded, purplish-crimson stone sparkled.

"The gem is dragon's breath fire opal. Put it on."

She shared a curious glance with Harry, who could only shrug, his expression as mystified as her own. Slipping the ring onto her finger, she jumped a little at the sensation of the ornate, blackened-silver band resizing itself to fit her, perfectly.

"What is this?"

Kingsley's brows drew upward as he exhaled sharply through his nostrils. "Something you are  _required_  to have, for your protection and theirs, now that you have claimed possession of powerful Dark wizards."

"I . . . ." She shook her head as her words slid off; she genuinely had no idea what to say, or ask. Instead, the witch squared her shoulders, turning her attention to the open door before them.

Draco looked to his father as footfalls descended the staircase. The elder Malfoy—somehow managing to look regal, even mired in their current circumstances—lounged on one of the cots the Ministry had been  _so kind_  as to provide them.

His hands linked behind his head, Lucius only eyed the barred door with a bored expression. Supposedly this was not worse than execution. Yet, as he noticed the mass of wild, golden-brown hair, half-hidden behind one of the Minister's arms, he  _begged_  to differ.

"Death would've been kinder," Draco muttered with a miserable headshake, drawing a grin from Lucius at how the young man's words had echoed his own thoughts so perfectly.

Kingsley unlocked the door, throwing it open with a bit of dramatic flair before he stepped inside. Miss Granger _and_  Mr. Potter followed, because—of  _course_ —neither of them could go anywhere without the other one, now could they?

As the Mudblood's gaze moved from one Dark wizard to the other, and back, Lucius heaved a weighted sigh and climbed to his feet. Draco followed suit, folding his arms stubbornly across his chest. The younger wizard was not quite as tall as his father, but they each towered over the witch, and allowing her a moment to recognize that was important.

Hermione frowned as she watched the Malfoys stand from the miserable little cots they'd been allowed. The simple black vests and matched trousers they each wore had seen better days. She supposed it was a step up from prison attire, but not by much.

Their silvery-blond hair was long and unkempt, brushing their shoulders, and they both looked like they could use a bath. Maybe a shave.

_If_  I  _allow it,_  she thought, still a bit awestruck by the entire situation.

"Hell _-o_ ," Harry said at the sight of them. Though he'd spoken under his breath, Hermione still heard him, so the playful comment earned him a swatted shoulder.

As the pair of Dark wizards moved before her, standing nearly shoulder-to-shoulder, she noticed the chains circling their necks. Thick, blackened silver . . . set with dragon's breath fire opals at the center.

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she looked to her ring, and then to the Minister. "How does this work?"

"Simple, really," Kingsley said, secretly relishing the way the Malfoys' expressions darkened as he explained to her, "You are their master . . . or mistress, as it were. They can _not_  disobey you."

She felt the breath tremble out of her as she turned her head, meeting the grey eyes of Draco Malfoy, and then Lucius. They were going to fight this with every fiber of their being, but she couldn't say she blamed them.

"I . . . suppose," she started, proud that her voice sounded strong and steady. There was certainly part of her that  _wanted_  to let them wallow down here, but she thought that was probably what they expected of her.

And there was  _nothing_  Hermione Granger enjoyed quite so much as proving a Malfoy wrong.

"I suppose," she said, again, "I will allow you to have bedrooms. And  _baths_. C'mon." She slipped her hand into Harry's and turned, starting back up the staircase.

The Malfoys tried to hold back, but Kingsley turned suspicious jet eyes on them. The Minister arched a brow, nodding for them to follow their  _mistress_  as he tapped two fingers against his holstered wand in a sign of warning.

All that held Draco from snapping at the dark-skinned man was his father's hand slipping over his shoulder. Swallowing angry words, the younger Malfoy turned, following his former classmates up the staircase, Lucius right on his heels.

Once they were away from the echoing effect of the cellar staircase, Draco glanced about. Potter and Granger were deep in some whispered conversation, Shacklebolt was too involved in keeping track of their movements.

He leaned a hair's breadth closer to his father, asking in such a low whisper that he barely heard his own words, "Tell me you have a plan?"

The faintest smirk curved one corner of Lucius' lips upward. "My dear boy . . . of  _course_ , I do."


	2. Advantageous Positions

**Chapter Two**

Advantageous Positions

Later that evening, Hermione had returned to her modest Muggle flat to gather some things. The Manor was  _hers_ , and she was  _going_  to get used to the place, whether she liked it or not, she'd decided!

She was  _going_  to go back over there, select the largest, most lavishly decorated room for herself, and act like she bloody well  _wanted_  to be there! Despite her clear command to the Malfoys that they were not allowed to leave the Manor grounds in her absence—or set any pranks or booby traps, utilize any secreted-away Dark artefacts that might kill, maim or in any way harm her, or otherwise conspire against her—Kingsley had insisted on leaving a pair of Aurors to watch over her  _property_. Though, Hermione suspected the Minister's decision had more to do with his desire to keep Lucius and Draco mindful of their new life circumstances than it did any belief that they'd find a way around the enchantments on their fancy new jewelry.

Harry and Oliver looked on from chairs pulled 'round the kitchen table as she phoned her parents. If she was going to be at the Manor—gutting and redecorating, working from home, so to speak, and otherwise doing everything in her power to make the Malfoys miserable  _and_  pretend she was enjoying it—then she needed to explain to her parents that they would only be able to contact her by owl, as they'd done during her school years, should they need to reach her.

The conversation was not going as simply, or smoothly, as Hermione'd hoped.

"I told you it's a Wizarding . . . thing. Think of it like that sword Grandfather was presented for his military service, only a bit . . . bigger _._   _Yes_. Oh! Oh,  _God_ , no! No, Mum, you don't . . . ." Hermione chewed at her bottom lip, exhaling through her nostrils as Dahlia Granger simply spoke over her daughter on the other end of the line.

Frowning, Oliver leaned back toward Harry as he pointed at the Muggle device into which Hermione was speaking. "And that's what, again?" he asked in a whisper.

"Telephone," Harry whispered back, sparing a moment to brush a kiss against his boyfriend's temple. "Sort of like a Howler you can have an argument through in real-time."

The young men looked up, startled to see the witch eyeing them with a cross expression.

It wasn't that she wanted—or expected she could get away with hoping for—her parents to never set foot inside  _her_  new Manor. She simply couldn't begin to think what to do with the Malfoys while her parents visited, or how to explain the presence of the Dark wizards to her parents, who would undoubtedly want to know why their daughter was residing with two men who were perfect strangers to them.

She was pretty certain  _Ancient Wizarding Law_  was  _not_  going to go over well with them. There was also the matter of wanting to remove any particularly chatty portraits who might feel the need to state openly—and  _loudly_ —how affronted they were to have Muggles on Malfoy grounds.

The Malfoy ancestors she'd stumbled across so far had not been particularly kind in their words to _her_ about her ownership of the Manor, as it was.

She pulled the receiver away from her ear a moment. "A  _Howler_ , Harry? Honestly, you—"

"Hermione! Are you listening to me, young lady?" Dahlia's voice came through loud and clear, only disgruntling Hermione further, as it seemed to support Harry's description.

Oliver's brows shot up as he said in a low tumble of words, "Sounds like a Howler to me."

Harry let out a breathy snicker as he held a finger to his lips in a silencing gesture.

Hermione rolled her eyes at the pair as she shook her head and set the receiver back against her ear. "Mum? Mum! Look, I appreciate that you and Dad are worried, but it's just _not_ a good idea for you to go with me. The place is . . . really in bad condition right now, and we're in the process of fixing it up. . . . Yes,  _of course_  with magic. Well, um . . . ."

From the thoughtful look she cast on him and Oliver, Harry had a feeling he wasn't going to much like where Hermione was going with whatever she was about to say.

"Harry and Oliver will be staying with me until I get settled."

Oliver sat up a bit straighter at that and Harry chuckled quietly and buried his face in his hands.

"Oliver Wood. You've met him, Mum. Harry's boyfriend." Her brows furrowed and she rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet. "Um, yes, I—I suppose it  _was_  obvious," she replied with a shake of her head.

Harry scoffed audibly in the backdrop, and even Oliver looked aghast. "We're not gay," they whispered at her in unison.

Hermione cast the couple a sidelong glance, remembering the many invitations they'd issued her—and more than one occasion of waking up pleasantly surprised to find herself wedged between them. "Believe  _me,_  I'm aware. Now hush," she murmured, the tips of her fingers shielding the mouth piece.

Her hand slipped back to her side. "Yes, of course," she said again, nodding to no one. "I promise—as soon as the place is presentable. Yes, I'll be safe, I  _swear_. Love you, too, Mum."

After a strained moment, she hung up and turned her full attention to the seated wizards.

Oliver's lips pressed into a thin line as he looked from Hermione to Harry, and back. "Well, I guess it's been decided we're staying with Hermione a few days."

Her brows inched upward as she forced a hopeful grin in Harry's direction. The resulting expression looked so pained, Harry couldn't help but chuckle, again.

With a sigh, he nodded. "Of course we are. Because, apparently, two attractive men in her house, already, just _isn't_  enough for her."

Oliver laughed as Hermione darted across the room to swat Harry's shoulder.

* * *

Draco hated to have to think the words, but he was  _actually_ grateful to that filthy little Mudblood. She'd allowed them to properly clean themselves up, put on fresh clothes,  _and_  they had beds for the night.

Sad state of affairs that a Malfoy should be grateful for such simple and meager conveniences, but there it was.

True, she'd decided against letting them have razors—some such nonsense about not trusting them to not slit their own wrists just to get away from their new position—and his hair was still a little longer than he'd like, but in one afternoon of her  _supervision_ , they'd already been treated far better than either of them had expected. And  _certainly_  better than they had been under six months of Ministry incarceration as those bumbling oafs twiddled their thumbs and dragged their feet in deciding what to do with Draco and Lucius.

But perhaps that was what one _should_  expect of the girl who'd pushed for house elf liberation.

Father was grateful, too . . . . Of course, he'd never admit to it, either, but Draco could tell. There seemed a weight lifted from the man's shoulders. He sat a bit straighter than before, kept running his hands through his long, now-clean hair, seemingly for no other reason than because it didn't feel dirty, anymore.

Now, as they sat in the parlor playing a game of Wizard Chess— their  _wardens_ looking on steadily—father explained his plan. The pair of Aurors left to guard them were within unobstructed eye-line or—better yet, within easy wand-strike distance—but just enough distance away to allow private conversation.

If they kept their voices low enough, which, of course, was something at which the Malfoys were quite practiced.

But then, as the words registered in his brain, Draco had nearly choked on a mouthful of the tea they'd been permitted to make . . .  _themselves_ , which had been an experience, to say the least.

He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, Father, did—did you just say . . . ?"

"You heard perfectly well what I said, or you would not have reacted so," Lucius said with a bored sigh as he moved his gaze over the board, assessing his next move.

" _Seduce_  Granger? Us? You  _must_  be mad!"

Pushing aside the table, Lucius sat back. He propped his elbow upon the armrest of his chair and dropped his chin against his hand. For a long moment, he only held his son's gaze, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against his jaw.

He was such a clever young man that sometimes Lucius found himself honestly shocked when Draco's propensity for overthinking things, or otherwise missing the point, reared its head.

"I have _not_  gone mad, I assure you," the elder Malfoy said, his tone low and controlled. "If you will kindly recall our situation, we have  _no_  power. No station, no finances. Nothing. Everything that was ours is hers now. And the only way for us to regain control of that which should be ours . . . ?"

"Is for us to gain control over her." Draco nodded, understanding, but still not certain he liked the idea—this was Granger, after all! She  _loathed_ them. Father might as well suggest they try taking over the Ministry.

"Precisely. Power by proxy, as it were." Father shrugged, pulling the table back to once more contemplate his next move. "We will have to play this wisely, however. Convince her that she wants us around, that _she_  wants to make  _us_  . . . happy. We must put her in a position where she is willing to do as we say, where she will be reluctant to act—to even make a decision—without seeking  _our_  permission."

Draco took another sip, wincing. God, was he going to have to ask Granger to show him how to make a proper pot of tea?  _That_ was a sobering realization of their circumstances, if there ever was one.

"And you think seduction is the way to do that?" Odd, he'd always thought Lucius Malfoy's favored method of coercion was intimidation. "Don't think you're overestimating the power of this . . .  _option_  a bit, do you?"

Once more, Lucius met his son's gaze. A smirk tugged at one corner of his lips. "Oh, my boy. You have  _so_  much to learn, yet."

Draco's brows drew upward as he thought on that. He really didn't  _want_ to wonder what sort of tricks his father might have up his sleeve in this particular subject, now did he?

Returning his attention to the chess board, Lucius nodded, making his move. "Check."

Jaw dropping a bit, Draco looked to the board, wondering how he'd missed it. Then he realized . . . . "You used the conversation to distract me."

"Have I not always taught you?" Lucius' smirk grew into a grin as he arched a brow. "Take. Every. Advantage."

Draco ran a hand down his face. Merlin, it had been a long day—somehow longer than the ones they'd spent doing  _nothing_ but counting the hours locked in the cellar dungeon. Weighing his possible moves on the board, he thought he could  _probably_  still win, but he wasn't certain he had the energy to play any longer.

Sitting back, he held up both hands in a sign of concession.

Lucius shook his head as his chess pieces leapt to life, charging across the board to smash Draco's to smithereens.

"God, I _hate_  that game," their  _mistress_ ' voice floated in from the doorway, over the sound of shattering marble.

"You're  _still_ not over that?" Harry asked from behind her left shoulder. "Really?"

"I'm sorry, giant chess pieces trying to  _murder_  us isn't something easily forgotten."

Harry Potter was an expected presence, but the other one with them . . . . Lucius was certain he'd seen the brown-haired wizard before, but he couldn't put a name to the face.

Hermione dragged in a sigh. "Why don't you and Oliver go upstairs and pick a room?"

Oh, yes; Oliver Wood, the Quidditch player. Now he recalled, though he probably wouldn't, if not for Draco's insistence on taking up the sport in second year.

Harry and Oliver both regarded her suggestion with wary looks. "We'll wait for you to choose, then pick one near yours."

"Is that a protective measure, or were the rumors we overheard from the Ministry wizards about you three true?"

Hermione rolled her eyes at Draco's question so hard that her lids fluttered. "I'm sorry. Not your business, either way, is it?" Stepping further into the room, she sniffed the air, the bridge of her nose crinkling. "What's that smell?"

Lucius and Draco exchanged a glance, before the younger Malfoy said in a muttered tumble of words. "We, um . . . we tried to make tea?"

Biting hard into her bottom lip to hold in a laugh, she looked back at Harry and Oliver. Both appeared appropriately stuck somewhere between horror and amusement.

Draco, on the other hand, looked affronted by their humor at the situation. "Well, we've never had to do it before, have we?"

"Miss Granger," Lucius said, voice rich and smooth as it cut through the room, stopping her from uttering any words of feigned sympathy for their  _dire straits_.

She turned toward him, just as he stood from the chair, smoothing his hands over his simple black trousers and matched shirt. How he could manage to look just as aristocratic and regal in such plain clothes as he had in full, brand new, top-of-the-line robes was beyond her.

He gestured toward the duffel she held gripped too-tight in one hand. Her wand was not anywhere to be seen, which could only mean—intelligent as she was— the young witch had quickly assessed the situation, and realized she did not need one to keep them inline. "I will take that for you. If you will allow us, we can show you to the bedrooms, so that you might select the most comfortable, of course."

The polite words falling from Lucius Malfoy's lips startled her. Well and truly caught off-guard, she turned to look at Harry and Oliver, once more. They mirrored her shocked expression, each only able to shrug at her.

"And, perhaps if you would be so kind, after you and your guests have chosen your rooms, you might show Draco and I how to make a proper pot of tea?"

Swallowing hard, she backpedaled a step before she even realized she'd moved. It was a simple enough request, and one that made sense, if she ever decide to ask them to make her tea while she poured over her Ministry work up in the study. She could certainly prohibit them from poisoning her  _intentionally_ , but from the smell of their current attempt at the process, they might well do it by accident.

Yet, she could not say she had expected Lucius to be so accommodating. No, no. He was  _up_  to something. He  _had_  to be.

Unless he'd simply decided that accepting his new lot in life without fuss—the path of least resistance—was a more desirable option. Which she doubted, but anything was possible.

"I suppose," she said, nodding. Best to not let him realize she was suspicious of him—if he was half as intelligent as his son, then he already thought she was cautious of his current pleasant demeanor, anyway.

She held out the bag toward him. It seemed everyone in the room held their breath as Lucius didn't move for a moment. Perhaps it was her imagination that he gave himself a shake before he finally uprooted himself from the floor to step closer to her.

He reached for her bag, his fingers brushing hers as he took the strap from her hand.

The witch started, something like surprise flickering in her chestnut eyes as she held his gaze. Forcing a gulp, she said, "Thank you. Um, lead the way."

Nodding, Lucius turned on his heel and started for the door. Harry and Oliver immediately parted, allowing the Dark wizard passage.

Hermione turned her head—she would ignore that strange little jolt that zipped through her at that split-second of skin-to-skin contact with the elder Malfoy— her attention shifting to Draco.

He remained silent, only lifting his brows as he waited for her to speak.

"Go on, follow your father," she said, nodding toward the doorway. "I want you where I can see you."

"Of course." He offered her a mirthless, tight-lipped smile as he turned and started across the floor—before the chain around his neck could decide he was disobeying her.

"So," Hermione asked, glancing back at the tea cups by the chess board. "How awful  _did_  your try turn out?"

Draco's entire frame seemed to shudder ever so slightly as he cringed and shook his head. "I don't want to talk about it."

She trooped through the Manor's first floor and up the stairs, between Oliver and Harry. They both held her hands, and she wondered if that was for support, or to make the Malfoys think the rumors might actually be true.

"So," Harry said, in a barely audible whisper, angling his head toward Lucius Malfoy. "That was weird just now, right?"

Oliver's brows shot up as he nodded.

Hermione, however, shook her head. "I don't want to talk about it."


	3. Tea and Pyjamas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: During the initial posting of this story, I had a rather snide anon reviewer tell me Hermione "Didn't know how to make tea!" Now, I don't know if they meant that in a canon context, which seemed ridiculous, because we never find out in canon if she knows how to brew proper tea or not, or if they were suggesting there was something incorrect in what she does in the opening scene of this chapter. It's the way I learned, and not every family hands down the same exact methods for brewing tea.

**Chapter Three**

Tea and Pyjamas

"It's been five minutes, take the kettle off the flame!"

Draco, uncertain of the reason for such urgency, moved to do as he was told. The impatient witch, however, waved him out of the way, taking the kettle from the burner, herself.

Shaking her head, she grumbled under her breath as she poured the kettle's contents through the strainer set into the mouth of the warmed tea pot. When it was emptied, she set the kettle back upon the stove top and turned off the flame.

"What's the rush?" the younger Malfoy asked, exchanging a mystified glance with his father, who stood in the kitchen entryway, his arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the doorjamb.

"Think of this like a less-complicated potion," she said, trying hard to keep her voice from dropping to a seething whisper. Honestly, the Malfoys were being _surprisingly_  not-difficult about learning how to make tea, her irritation was rooted in how little they were able to care for themselves, because it only reminded her of their former dependence on house elves. "Once you add the tea to the water, you can only allow it to remain on the flame for three to five minutes. Any less and it'll be weak, any more and you'll end up stewing the leaves."

"And . . . all Muggles know this?"

Hermione bit the inside of her bottom lip to keep from snapping at Lucius. "Not all, but typically the ones not  _exceedingly_  spoiled by hired help, yes."

There was a flicker of anger through her chestnut eyes—one Draco recognized from their many squabbles at Hogwarts—as the witch held the elder Malfoy's mostly-bored gaze.

"Why don't I just pour this and we'll see how it turned out?" Draco offered, not so offended by the task, now that Granger had compared it to brewing a potion.

Forcing a deep breath, Hermione pivoted on her heel to face Draco and nodded. "All right." She crossed to the pantry to fetch milk and sugar, finding the shelves surprisingly bare. The Ministry must've brought in whatever meals they'd been giving the  _prisoners_.

Returning with the items, she set them down between the tea cups. "I suppose I'll have to do some shopping tomorrow, then."

They each fixed their cups, and Hermione—knowing precisely the process she'd overseen—took a sip. The other two seemed much more reluctant.

Setting down her own tea, she rolled her eyes at them. "Oh, just  _try_ it. This is something you made, yourself . . . mostly. You should be eager to see how it turned out!"

Exchanging another glance, the wizards did as instructed. Though, they did so with looks somewhere between curiosity and horror on their faces.

After they each sipped, the horror disappeared and the curiosity was replaced by relief.

"That's actually not so terrible, now. I suppose the timing does matter," Draco said.

She took another sip of her tea before bothering to speak. They were her . . . servants, or whatever their station was, now, and they had to listen to her, but she didn't want to take advantage of that. It would be justice to treat them no better than they'd treated their house elves, but they would not learn from that.

"You noticed the clock in here, yes?" she asked, nodding toward the ornate timepiece hanging on the wall beside the oven.

They both nodded.

"Do you understand why that's here, of all rooms?"

The Malfoys looked at one another. Lucius shrugged. "To know when to serve the meals, I would assume."

Hermione set down her cup and leaned forward. Propping her elbows on the counter, she dropped her face into her hands and let out a strangled shriek.

Lucius arched a brow at the sound, while Draco's eyes shot wide.

Straightening up, she cleared her throat and dropped her hands back to her sides. "Okay, when your house elves cooked meals for you, they didn't do it with magic—well, they did some of it with magic, I'm sure, but not everything. They _actually_  cooked. That required preparation, and knowledge of ingredients, and memorizing God only knows how many recipes. It was  _real_ work. How do you think they managed all that?"

When the wizards, again, offered her clueless expressions, she gestured to the clock, both hands spread wide. " _Timing_!"

"You seem awfully worked up about this," Lucius observed in a lazy drawl.

"Perhaps because I am." Hermione narrowed her eyes at him as she propped her fists on her hips. "You two didn't even know how to make a bloody cup of tea! You're useless without your servants, yet you had the audacity to act better than them! Your pantry—your  _giant_ pantry, which your servants undoubtedly kept well-stocked—is practically empty. Do you even know how it functions? A stasis charm to preserve the food and keep anything from spoiling! You haven't the foggiest idea how your own home works, and now _I_  have to run errands for this place."

"Well, Miss Granger, it is  _your_  home, now," Lucius said, his head tipping to one side as he took a step closer to her. "And we are not permitted to attend to tasks off Manor grounds, therefore you have little choice about these . . . errands, do you not?"

Hermione frowned. He had a point, she hated that he had a point—it even seemed he, of all people, was trying to get her to see reason. She hated that, even more. But this entire conversation had given her an idea.

"You are right, Mr. Malfoy," she said, clasping her hands together and forcing a syrupy smile onto her lips. "This  _is_ my house. And tomorrow, after I run those errands, I'll see about having someone come in to teach you two how to prepare meals. After all, you can't leave the grounds, you're going to have to do something to keep yourselves occupied, aren't you?"

The thought skittered across his mind that if he only had a  _wand . . ._  but just as he thought it, the chain spelled 'round his neck tightened a little. The smooth metal surface turned jagged and sharp, reminding him of its purpose.

Hermione's brow furrowed at the way Lucius flinched, but he simply nodded, hiding his momentary discomfort.

"Of course. I cannot say I would think any differently in your place," he said, realizing the statement to be true only as the words fell from his lips.

"Right." Swallowing hard, she glanced from Lucius to Draco—who had only been observing the interaction in silence, appearing as though he was waiting for one of them to lash out at the other—and back. "Well, it's late. I think we should all turn in. Draco you'll escort me back to my room, as I still don't quite have my bearings here, yet, and Mr. Malfoy, you'll clean up the tea and then retire to your chosen room."

As Draco trailed the witch out of the room, he said to Lucius in a barely audible whisper, "Nicely done, Father."

"Winning at this will take time," Lucius whispered back, giving an easy shrug. "Hence why I am forcing the venom from her system early. Your turn."

With a sigh, Draco continued on after Hermione.

He led her through the house and up the stairs to the second level. Quiet most of the way, he hadn't the foggiest idea what to say to her.

Until they were nearly at her door.

"You can't tell me you're not getting at least a little joy from this situation, Granger."

Pausing mid-stride, she spun to face him. "I beg your pardon?"

Brows shooting up, he recoiled a bit.

"Owning people?  _Me_? Did you learn  _nothing_  from all my very vocal projects during Hogwarts? You know, the ones you and your pure-blood friends always mocked? What about this situation would _possibly_  make you think I'm happy to  _own_  another person, let alone two people?"

He scowled, her temper triggering his own. Draco leaned down a little, putting his face in hers. "Then  _why_  did you accept Shacklebolt's terms? Why didn't you just let us _rot_  here?"

"Because if I didn't take ownership of you, he'd have turned you over to the public and they'd have  _killed_ you!"

Again, he recoiled a little. "So . . . ." He forced a gulp, having trouble thinking the words. "So you saved our lives?"

She frowned, shrugging. "Of course. I won't let someone die if I can help it. That's how I am, if you haven't gotten that part by now."

"And that's why you won't let us leave the grounds."

Dropping her attention to the floor, she nodded. "Your lives are in my hands. I can't guarantee that if you leave, you'll come back alive. It's simple, really."

When she lifted her gaze again, Draco was the one nodding, his eyes moving over her in something like appraisal. "Hmm. Perhaps you're  _not_  as awful as I've always thought."

Her expression pinched in anger. "See yourself to the room you chose earlier and go to bed."

He shook his head; she'd really gotten down the idea of giving them orders.

Turning on his heel, he started along the corridor.

"Goodnight, Granger," he called over his shoulder.

When he glanced back toward her after several steps, her found her watching after him. He couldn't say if the look on her face was puzzled or thoughtful, but he felt pretty certain he'd done at least a little of that venom-draining-thing Father had suggested.

* * *

A knock sounded at their door. Harry looked up from where he sat, his back against Oliver's reclined form. A second knock, and he closed the book he was reading.

"Dammit, unless you two are shagging, you'd better open this door!"

Biting his lip against a chuckle, Harry set aside his book and rose from the bed.

"Do you think she found it?" Oliver asked with a grin.

Harry nodded as he crossed the floor. Opening the door, they found a rather unhappy Hermione standing there, holding up a short, flimsy satin and lace nightdress. Folding his lips inward, Harry glanced between her and the article of clothing. "Problem?"

"Which one of you packed this in my bag?"

Shrugging, Harry looked over at Oliver, who mirrored the gesture. "Packed that? I . . . I really couldn't—"

Her face fell into an angry scowl. "Okay. Which one of you _replaced_  my flannel pyjamas with this satin and lace atrocity?"

"Be fair, Hermione," Oliver said, sitting up on the bed and clasping his hands before him. "You're living in a  _manor_ , now! You should look the part! And, besides, I did find it in  _your_ wardrobe."

"Another question would be why the bloody hell did you go through my wardrobe!"

Harry's brows shot up in mock surprise. "And I've never seen this before, because . . . ?"

"That oaf Cormac bought it for me. I kept it because it's . . . fine, yes, it's pretty," she conceded with a frown. "Even  _before_  we broke up, I never thought I'd wear it."

"Just  _try_  it," Oliver said with a wink. "I packed the matched dressing gown, too."

"Fine. I'll see you two in the morning." She held up a finger, her gaze flicking between them as she spoke. "And don't think I won't get you back for this!"

Hermione pulled the door closed and went back across the corridor to her own room. The room that had apparently belonged to Abraxas Malfoy. It was definitely the largest, and the most lavishly decorated. She was going to really enjoy tossing out all of the depressing, dark-wood furniture, and the rich, black velvet accents. The brightest color in the room was a deep, dark crimson.

It was beautiful, but a little terrifying.

Heaving a weighted sigh, she decided she'd go ahead and give Oliver's idea a try. She'd already removed all the portraits from this room, so she was not concerned about undressing where she stood and inadvertently giving any Malfoy ancestors an eyeful.

Once in the creamy material, she couldn't help a sudden inclination. Crossing the room to see herself in the wardrobe mirror, she spun in place.

The nightdress really was lovely . . . the straps were ribbons tied in perfect little bows, and the flower-patterned lace cupped her breasts, giving the faintest peek-through of her nipples.

"Well, can't leave the room without my dressing gown in this," she said with a laugh.

She had so many things to do tomorrow. Shopping for food was the least of her worries. Pinning her hair into a messy bun atop her head, she tried to put all the serious errands she had to face tomorrow out of her head.

"Okay, Hermione, just get some sleep." Nodding to herself, she pulled back the thick, soft covers and crawled into her bed.

And proceeded to toss and turn for two hours, her looming responsibilities bouncing around in her mind. The unfamiliar sounds of Malfoy Manor at night echoed in her ears a bit too loud.

So tired she felt she might burst into tears at her inability to fall asleep, she sat up, tossing back her covers.

* * *

She pouted tiredly up at Oliver as he opened the door.

"Hermione," he said, shaking his head as he blinked a few times to clear his sleep-blurred eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Can't sleep. Can I cuddle up with you two?"

"Like you even need to ask," Harry's reply rang out from beneath the canopy of the four-post bed, causing Oliver to laugh. "Get in here."

Bouncing up on her toes, she pressed a kiss to Oliver's cheek and stepped inside. Still snickering, the former Quidditch captain closed the door behind her and followed her to the bed.

Crawling beneath the covers Harry held up for them, she fit herself against his side, pillowing her head on his shoulder. Oliver spooned behind her, his arms circling her waist.

"Missed us already?"

She grinned as she closed her eyes. "This place is still too weird. And I have so much to do tomorrow that I couldn't relax, but I'm  _so_  tired."

"Okay," Harry said, brushing a kiss against the top of her hair. "Well, you're here, now, so just get some rest."

Hermione nodded, smooshing her cheek against his shoulder harder. A small sigh escaped her as Oliver tightened his hold on her, just a little.

She didn't know how many minutes had ticked past  _this_  time before she made an aggravated whimpering sound.

In the darkness of the room, she could see clearly enough as Harry's eyes popped open. "Hermione?"

"I'm sorry, I still can't . . . . Maybe I'll go make some warm milk, or something."

"Or, we could help you."

There was _something_  to Oliver's sleepy voice in her ear.

Harry nodded, slipping out from under her to turn onto his side, facing them. "He's right, we could. It'd be like the night before that awards ceremony."

Hermione felt a sweet little pulse thud through her at the memory, but she shook her head against the pillow. "I do _not_  have the energy for a repeat of that."

"Oh, I know," he said with a wink. "Just seeing how much you'd be open to."

"Harry and I will do _just_  enough to exhaust you." Again, Oliver's voice was in her ear, but this time, as he spoke, he lifted his hands to cup her breasts. The edges of his nails circled her nipples through the floral lace and he tugged at her earlobe with his teeth.

Shuddering in Oliver's embrace, she sank back against him. Her gaze on Harry's, she opened to him as the green-eyed wizard leaned in, thrusting his tongue between her lips.

His fingers traced down, over her thighs. Slipping a hand beneath her knee, he lifted her leg, draping it back over Oliver's.

Hermione nipped and suckled at Harry's tongue, assisting him by pulling her knickers aside as he lifted the hem of her nightdress. At the first brush of his fingertips between her thighs, she moaned, pressing back against Oliver.

Harry worked her clit in fast, steady circles. Breaking the kiss, he leaned away from her a little, watching her expression in the dim light. She let her head loll against the pillow, her fingers slipping up into Oliver's hair to curl into a fist at the back of his head as he nibbled and lapped at the side of her throat.

Each time it seemed she was tensing, Harry eased the pressure, slowing his motions. He adored the way she trembled as she moved, and the little disappointed mewling sound she made each time he slowed.

She ground her hips, rocking herself against Harry's fingers. Letting go of her knickers, she reached toward him, but he caught her wrist with his free hand.

"None for us, tonight," he said, lifting her fingers to brush his mouth over the tips before relinquishing his hold on her arm. "You don't have the energy, remember?"

"It's . . . it's a little unfair," she said in a breathless whisper.

"Don't worry, you'll just owe us."  _God_ , she was so wet and warm against his fingertips. Biting his lip, he decided he would give her something  _just_  a little extra.

Hermione started a little, a moan tearing from her lips as Harry sank the fingers of his free hand into her.

"Okay, Harry, if you slow down this time, I'm going to kill you," she said in a rushed whisper, drawing a chuckle out of Oliver.

Oliver, in turn, murmured in her ear, "Don't worry, I won't let him." Slipping a hand from her breast, he trailed it down, his fingers slipping over Harry's to guide his motions.

"Oh,  _God_ ," she said in a ragged whisper, a shiver rocking through her as they rubbed her faster, pressing just a bit more tightly.

Harry's fingers sank into her and withdrew, again and again, beautifully timed to the rocking of her hips. He leaned close, again, his mouth capturing Oliver's over her shoulder as she tensed between them.

As she stilled, Oliver pushed his hips behind her, forcing her forward against the thrusting of Harry's fingers. Hermione let out a wordless cry as she came, Harry's and Oliver's hands working her faster, still.

They eased their motions only as her orgasm ebbed, only as she was able to move, once more. The motion of her hips was jerking and unsteady, rocking her against their ministrations.

Only after she'd stilled again, practically collapsing back against Oliver, did they withdraw their hands.

She watched in an exhausted daze as Harry reached glistening fingers over her shoulder. Oliver licked them clean, not shy about the satisfied sound rumbling out of him.

Harry lay back and scooted himself beneath Hermione, once more. Drained as she was now, he assisted Oliver to lay her head against his chest and right her nightdress and knickers.

When all three were settled, again, he brushed another kiss against the top of Hermione's head. "Better?"

But the only answer she offered was a soft little snore.

"Remind me again why she won't actually  _date_  us?" Oliver said as he yawned, snuggling more tightly against the sleeping witch.

"Less complicated this way," Harry said, catching Oliver's hand in his and raising it to his lips to kiss the back of his knuckles.

"Oh, right." Oliver said, nodding. Everyone thought they were together, anyway, so didn't it technically make things  _more_  complicated? Oh, well.

Oliver closed his eyes and let sleep overtake him. Just like Harry, he'd have Hermione Granger figured out, eventually.


	4. Property of Hermione Granger

**Chapter Four**

Property of Hermione Granger

Lucius poked his head into the kitchen, following the sound of his new  _owner_  muttering unhappily. Miss Granger stood before the stove, her shoulders hunched and her head shaking as she moved some things about on the burners.

"Are your fellow Gryffindors not joining us for breakfast?"

Hermione started at the voice behind her, but only shook her head, once more. "They both had early mornings in their Ministry departments. They'll be back this evening. Harry was kind enough to pop out to the market and pick up a few things before he left. Can you bring me the bread?"

Brow furrowing, he looked about. There, on the counter nearest the pantry, was a loaf of dark, pre-sliced bread in wrapping, amongst a few other things he did not readily recognize—the wizard in question must've gone to one of the dreadful Muggle markets in the area. Retrieving the bread, as she requested, he brought it to her.

He stood behind her, peering over her shoulder into the pans on which she was so focused. "What is it you're doing?"

She didn't seem to notice his proximity as she pulled a few slices from the package and set them down in the melted butter in one of the pans. "I suppose I should tell you, so you can try to prepare food for yourself when I'm not here. I thought I'd make a simple breakfast. So," she said as she pointed to the separate pans, in turn. "Bacon, scrambled eggs, toast."

Reaching around her, he tipped the cup in which she'd beaten the eggs, noting the remnants of thick, yellow liquid. "I hope you will not mind my saying that this seems fairly ghastly."

She giggled, yet again shaking her head—she didn't notice that the ends of her wild hair brushed against him. "What's ghastly is having to pan-toast the bread, since you have no toaster.  _So_  old fashioned."

"And the unappetizing mess in the cup?"

Hermione frowned thoughtfully. Lucius Malfoy was a great deal more inquisitive about the simple matter of making breakfast than she'd  _ever_ imagined he would be. Then again, he'd never had to do it before, so this probably did not seem simple to him, at all.

"You crack the eggs in there, break the yokes and stir in some seasoning. After that . . . ." She pointed to the eggs in the pan. Even understanding the Malfoys' circumstances, it was unsettling to her that they did not grasp such basic tasks, as making tea or scrambling a bloody egg.

"Could you turn over the bread?" she asked, as she saw to dicing up the eggs and setting aside the bacon.

"Are you not still angry with me?" he asked, reaching around her, again, to do as she asked.

Her brow furrowed. "For what?"

"I do believe I upset you last night with our conversation."

The witch actually laughed. "Mr. Malfoy, if I were to spend my energy and time being angry every time a Malfoy did something to upset me, I'd never get anything else done."

He nodded. That was a strangely reasonable attitude.

"Why?" she asked in an amused tone as she turned off the burners and began setting the food on the plates beside the stovetop. "Don't tell me you were actually considering—?" Her elbow bumped his lower abdomen and she suddenly realized precisely how close behind her he stood.

Turning her head, she lifted her gaze to meet his. He simply stared back at her.

Hermione swallowed hard as she managed to finish in a whisper, "Apologizing?"

Lucius allowed a smirk—just a tiny hint of one—to curve a corner of his mouth upward. The faintest flicker in her eyes betrayed that the difference in his expression was not lost on her.

Their eyes locked, he gave a fluid shrug. "Perhaps I was. We find ourselves in quite the odd circumstance, Miss Granger. It might prove beneficial to all of us, were we to make an effort to be more pleasant toward one another."

It was sadly difficult for her to focus on his words with his grey eyes peering down into hers so steadily. There was a time she'd have been terrified to find herself the subject of Lucius Malfoy's undivided attention, but now . . . .

She tried to ignore the flutter of warmth through her belly. Now, something was  _clearly_  different.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Draco's voice cut through the room, snapping Hermione's attention from the elder Malfoy to him. She visibly tried to backpedal a step, but with the stove at her back, she had no safe retreat.

She slid sideways, turning toward the counter for only a moment to grab a plate and one of the cups of coffee she'd made before Mr. Malfoy had interrupted her breakfast preparations. Hermione didn't look at either of them as she stepped around Draco and headed to the dining room.

Draco met his father's eyes. Lucius handed Draco a plate and a mug, answering the younger wizard's suspicious look with a smirk and a shrug.

Nodding, Draco spoke as he turned to follow  _their mistress_  to the table. "You _do_  work fast."

"Loose her venom, then remind her how much nicer things can be without it . . . ." Lucius picked up his own things, his voice low as he fell into step beside his son. "Making _her_ question her own feelings will do half the work for us."

"Crafty old man," Draco said, unable to stop himself from chuckling under his breath.

Lucius couldn't help a grin. "Not  _that_  old."

* * *

After a while, Draco couldn't take the silence at the table. Granger just sat there, her gaze flicking from the windows, to her plate and back as she picked at her food and sipped her coffee.

For his part, Lucius didn't seem bothered by the quiet, but then, for all Draco knew, the elder wizard likely thought the reason for her reticence was the moment he'd interrupted in the kitchen. That probably made this a good thing in Father's book.

"Granger, you seem nervous."

Sighing, she met his gaze a moment before shaking her head and returning her attention to the greenery beyond the window panes. "Not nervous, just . . . not exactly looking forward to what I have to do today."

Lucius nodded, his tone nonchalant as he asked, "Would you care to discuss it?"

With a heavy sigh she shook her head. Then, clearly thinking better on it, she nodded, dropping her fork onto her plate and pushing the dish away. "I suppose you should know, since it does involve the two of you,  _sort_  of."

Folding his lips inward against a groan, Lucius propped his elbow on the tabletop. Pressing his fingertips to his forehead, he closed his eyes tight. "I suddenly have a terrible feeling I know what it is you are  _not_ looking forward to."

Draco's brows inched upward. Honestly, what? Was she planning a public execution for them?

She nodded. "Your estate has been property of the Ministry since it was seized. Now that I've accepted ownership . . . ." Hermione drew in a deep breath and let it out slow. "I am expected at Gringotts this morning to sign some documents that will transfer the contents of your family's vault to me. And then, at the Ministry, the deeds to your properties are to be signed over to me."

Both Malfoys looked a little sick, and she couldn't say she blamed them. Their possessions had no longer been theirs for quite some time, yet she was certain that hadn't seemed quite so  _final_  until just now.

"I know this is difficult, and I'm . . . . I can't believe I'm saying this to _you_ , but I'm sorry," she said, a bitter smile on her lips as she shook her head.

She  _hated_  that she actually felt sorry for them. She couldn't pretend she didn't understand their circumstances; couldn't ignore the realization that she would want someone on her side, were she in their place.

_Hermione Granger and her blasted compassion,_ she thought sourly.

Why couldn't she have been given custody of someone for whom she could feel  _no_ sympathy? Where the bloody hell was Dolores Umbridge when someone actually needed her?

Lucius was genuinely confused. "Why would _you_ apologize to us for this?"

Shaking his head, Draco waved dismissively in Hermione's direction. "Sympathetic acts are her  _thing."_

"I'm not comfortable having control of another's life like this," she said, ignoring the younger Malfoy's quip. "But, we all know what the alternative was."

Silence wrapped around the table for another long stretch. Hermione finished her coffee, unaware of Lucius' calculating gaze still on her as she started out the window. She didn't touch another bite of her breakfast.

"Something more unsettles you, Miss Granger?"

"Hmm?" She met Lucius' gaze. "Oh, I just . . . . Knowing what we all do about that  _alternative_ , I can't help worrying. I mean . . . . What's to become of you two if something should happen to me?"

She turned her attention to her cup and dish as she gathered them up and stood from the table, missing the look exchanged by the wizards across from her.

* * *

Lucius and Draco looked at each other in disbelief. Hermione glanced at the weed she'd pulled from one of the _many_  flowerbeds in the garden. "What?"

"Here I thought you were the bigger person—taking the high road, and all that," Draco said, grey eyes narrowed venomously. "Yet, here we are, with you making us do servants' work."

The witch gave herself a moment, counting quietly to ten and then letting out a breath. "No. No, you see, it is  _not_  servants' work to upkeep one's own home, Draco. If I have my way—which I  _do_ —a house elf will never set foot here, again." She ignored their unhappy expressions at her declaration. "There are only the three of us in this enormous house. Harry and Oliver likely won't mind pitching in while they're here, but their stay is only until I feel settled here . . . and until I'm certain you two have stopped trying to figure out a way to murder me in my sleep."

At least Lucius and Draco had the decency to feign shock at her accusation. They had attempted no such thing last night, but then she'd only just begun her stay at the Manor.

"It will be up to us to maintain this ridiculously excessive living space. This garden has not been tended since the start of the War." She shrugged. "I thought, after your incarceration, the fresh air and sunlight, and the exercise you'll get just from walking about looking for weeds to pull, would be a nice change."

Lucius gave a little start, looking from the witch, to the gardens surrounding them, and back. "You do not mean to leave us out here all day while you are running your _errands,_  do you?"

Her brows shot up. What sort of person did they think she was? Well, a terrible one, obviously.

"Not  _all_  day; I'll be back this afternoon. A handful of hours working in the sunshine won't kill you. You are permitted to go back inside and serve yourselves if you start feeling hungry or thirsty." She eyed Draco. "And I mean  _actually_  hungry or thirsty, no 'I'm so very thirsty and hungry, I think I'll just stay in the kitchen _all_ day helping myself to whatever I can find.' You're going to have to do  _actual_  work from here on out, Malfoys."

She allowed them a moment to shuffle in place and grumble their displeasure.

"You go in, eat or drink, return out here to continue with the weeding. Oh!"

Hermione reached into her bag and pulled out a small lotion bottle. "Come here." The men exchanged a glance.

She opened the bottle, dribbling some thick, white liquid onto her palm. When she looked up at them, again, neither had moved.

Her shoulders slumped. "You big babies, it's only sunscreen . . . . A Muggle convention to keep sun exposure from damaging the wearer's skin."

Draco found himself stepping forward—his father's  _helpful_ nudge in his back was to thank for that, of course.

Reaching up—though, from her expression it was clear she didn't like the reminder that they were both notably taller than her—she gently smoothed the lotion across Draco's face and neck. She didn't trust the Malfoys not to try getting the stuff in their eyes on purpose, so they could bow out of work due to  _injury._

She applied a coat to his hands, as well, as those would also be exposed to direct sunlight as they worked. Though it wasn't a surprise they didn't have something as simple as gardening gloves since the house elves wouldn't have needed them, she grudgingly added it to the list of things she needed to pick up.

"All right, Mr. Malfoy," she said, turning toward him as she ignored the sour expression Draco made when he sniffed at his fingers. "Your turn."

Hiding a smirk, Lucius took a step forward. He accommodated their height difference by leaning down for her to apply the odd smelling lotion.

Hermione tried not to stare at him as she applied the sunscreen. She'd simply never seen Lucius Malfoy's face this close to her own. Draco's? Certainly—they'd spent too many classroom rows in one another's faces. She was a bit stunned by how smooth his skin was beneath her fingertips—upsetting really. Shouldn't a man in his early forties have a wrinkle or two, by now? Crow's feet? Frown lines?  _Something?_

_Damn wizarding blood_.

She tried to ignore the way his gaze swept over her features as she worked the lotion along his neck, and the bit of his collar bones the opening of his shirt left exposed. And she certainly tried to ignore the way his closeness set off that damned warm fluttering, again, as she turned her attention to his hands.

This was Lucius  _bloody_  Malfoy! Possibly the last person in the whole of the Wizarding world who would care to give  _her_  butterflies. He was probably trying to intimidate her with his unflinching closeness, she realized.

Oh, if only he realized how terribly it was backfiring, she thought, trying not to laugh.

"Okay," she said, nodding as she finished with his hands and stepped back. "You have your rules. I'll be back as soon as I'm able."

When she had disappeared back inside to make her way toward the front entrance, Draco turned to his father. "I would've thought this would be a bit more upsetting for you, what with her blood status, but it seems you're settling right in."

Lucius grinned as he started down the nearest path to begin their assigned  _chore_. He was going to pretend he didn't hear the biting tone in his son's words— it  _almost_  sounded like jealousy. "Doing what I must to turn this situation to our advantage  _is_ a burden, I assure you."

He couldn't help a smirk after he turned away to grab hold of the first ugly, scraggly weed he spotted. The hazy gleam that had flickered through her eyes as she'd worked along his skin with delicate fingertips was in danger of making his burden not quite so arduous, but he'd keep that thought to himself, for now.

After all, it did play right into their plan, did it not?


	5. Lucius' Little Game

**Chapter Five**

Lucius' Little Game

Harry looked up as he stepped into the corridor from his office, nearly jumping out of his skin to find he'd almost collided with Hermione. Hermione, who seemed buried under a mound of paperwork as she stumbled back, her expression giving away that she was quite eager about something.

And perhaps a touch worried.

"Harry! Thank God I caught you before you left for lunch. D' you have a minute?"

He practically plastered himself back against his office door as she barreled though, not waiting for his answer. "Looks like whatever this is, it'll need more than a minute."

Setting the numerous scrolls and parchments down atop his desk with what was a near-deafening thump, she turned on her heel to face him. "No, no. Not all of this is for you, the bulk of it is, unfortunately, all mine. There are a few things I'd like you to sign, but we need to discuss what they are first. Possibly have Kingsley sign off on them, too. Just as a precaution."

"What sort of things, Hermione?" Harry asked, arching a brow behind the wire rims of his glasses as he folded his arms across his chest.

Steepling her hands, she darted her attention about the room, unable to hold his gaze as she explained. "Well, I've been running all over the place today, signing things, transfers of financial holdings, and lands, and all that rot. And as I was doing this it occurred to me . . . I did all this to spare the Malfoys from being executed, but then . . . what becomes of them if something happens to me?"

His shoulders drooping, Harry crossed the floor to stand before his best friend. "Nothing's going to happen to you, 'Mione."

She frowned at him. "I appreciate the sentiment, Harry, but I need to be a realist about this. If something should happen to me, what would become of them? With no one to take over for  _me,_ Kingsley might be red-taped into leaving their fate in the hands of the public. They'd be as good as dead. So I . . . wanted to ask if you'd be my beneficiary?"

Harry's jaw fell open. He realized he should've understood where she was going with this before she actually said the words. Even so, he couldn't help summing it up for his own clarification. "You . . . you want me to take over ownership of Lucius and Draco Malfoy?"

Hermione offered an awkward smile. Though, after the way he'd regarded the pair of Dark wizards yesterday afternoon, she did have to wonder if Harry might not just sign the paperwork and then kill her, himself.

"Maybe I should put a clause in there that you don't' get them if you, in any way, contribute to my demise," she said in a teasing whisper, trying to break through his apparent shock.

His lips pinched together as he tried to hold in a laugh. Clearing his throat, he gave a sideways nod. "Oh, you've got nothing to fear from me . . . though you'll probably want to keep an eye on Ollie once he finds out."

Not that it was difficult to keep an eye on Oliver Wood, most people found themselves doing it before being able to blushingly tear their attention away from him. Rather than lavishing Harry's boyfriend with a compliment, however, she said, "Oh, stop. Ollie wouldn't lay a finger on me."

Harry only held her gaze, his brows creeping up his forehead as his smile widened.

Laughing, she shook her head at him. "I mean in the murderous sense of the term!" Honestly! They were both perfectly aware there weren't many places on her body Oliver hadn't 'laid his fingers', so-to-speak, but she didn't need a reminder of that just now, or Harry might never make it to lunch.

Making an obvious effort to collect herself—perhaps their kind assistance in helping her get to sleep last night hadn't been a good idea after all, not if she and Harry, who could normally have a night like last night and then act completely platonic toward one another the next morning, were giving one another not-so-subtle cues—she gestured toward the paperwork. "So, what do you think? Should we sign it here, or take it to Kingsley?"

"Let's take it to Kings, just so no one can claim the signing wasn't witnessed, or something" he said, stepping to the desk to help her gather up the mountain of paperwork. "Then you can buy me lunch."

She groaned as she picked up the portion he'd left behind. "Walked right into that one, didn't I?"

"Well, you are rich now, be careful. People hit up their rich friends for free meals all the time."

Hermione snickered, shaking her head as she followed him out of his office. He would certainly know.

* * *

"You could've at least asked me if  _I_  was okay with this, you know," Oliver said in a mock affronted tone.

The three were walking into the Manor after Hermione had argued both their supervisors at the Ministry into letting them out early. She simply hadn't wanted to return here by herself. Certainly, she owned the place and literally everything in it—right down to its two, insufferable, occupants—but she had the oddest feeling of not wanting to be alone around the Malfoys right now.

She could pretend it was that she was—for some reason—still a bit wired after last night. But even with or without that, feeling _that_  could have any connection to a sudden sense of discomfort in Lucius and Draco Malfoy's company was . . . unsettling.

"What if  _I_  had a problem with this? D' you ever think of that? Hmmm, Missy?"

Hermione halted, completely cognizant of Harry and Oliver both halting behind her. Pivoting on her heel, she looked at Harry—painfully obvious in his attempt to hold back a laugh—and then at Oliver. Oliver who, much to his credit, managed to look completely serious as he met her gaze.

"Mm," she breathed the sound, nodding as she folded her arms under her breasts. Taking a step to close the distance between them, she let out an airy sigh as she answered, "Oh, yes, Oliver, you're right. It never occurred to me that you'd object to the possibility of the man you love having complete and utter control over two strapping Dark wizards magically chained to his bidding."

Oliver's brows made their way up his forehead in painfully slow increments as he stared down at her. After a strained heartbeat, a smirk curved his lips. "Yeah, okay, you got me there. You're getting good at this."

Laughing, she turned forward again and started walking. "Like you didn't know I'm a fast learner?"

As they entered the gardens, Hermione stopped short. Oliver and Harry nearly tripped over her before they, too, caught sight of just what had halted her this time.

Bloody. Malfoy. Wizards.

Well, not literally _bloody_  . . . . Draco was all but draped backward against one of the many pillars, his face dirt-streaked and beaded with sweat, his shirt plastered to him. Lucius was—bugger. Lucius had seen fit to remove his shirt, and Hermione could only curse the very heavens about whatever the reason for that might've been. He was using the bunched fabric in his free hand to wipe sweat from his brow as he trudged back to an impressively large pile of plucked weeds and tossed another handful on top.

Harry's breathy murmur in her ear dragged her back to reality as he said, "On second thought, I just might kill you, after all."

Snickering as she shook her head, she graced him with a jab of her elbow in his ribs before she gave herself a shake and walked toward the exhausted pair.

"Mr. Malfoy?" she said in a shrill tone, again shaking her head as she approached him. He looked rather shocked at the pitch in her voice. "What were you thinking working under the sun like that? Someone as pale as you could catch a terrible sunburn!"

Lucius drew in a breath, his shoulders moving with that inhalation before he let it out in a weighted sigh. "Forgive me, Miss Granger. My shirt tore on some of the shrubbery, and you were not here to coat me in anymore of that odd-smelling Muggle paste of yours."

Oliver exchanged a look with Harry, oblivious to her sudden discomfort at imagining slathering white liquid all over Lucius Malfoy's bare chest. "Oh, we're coating people in things, now, are we?"

Hermione winced and then glanced over her shoulder at Oliver. "It was sunscreen Oliver. Remember? Harry and I taught you about it that time we took you to the Muggle beach resort?"

"Right. We should do that again, sometime. We could even bring—"

He was cut off by Harry clamping a hand across his mouth.

Lucius' brow shot up at the interaction. He had wondered what sort of impression this mishap was going to leave on his  _mistress_. Now he knew it was the proper tack. She might not want to appear off-kilter about something so simple as his state of undress, but he'd picked up on it, all the same.

Of course, that was probably because he'd been watching for it.

Clearing her throat and giving her head yet another shake—honestly, it seemed all she was doing today was shaking her head at things—she waved dismissively at the Malfoys. Though, Lucius noted she didn't look up at him again.

"You two, um, just . . . go clean yourselves up. Later I'll show you how to make a simple dinner." Blast it. She'd intended to talk to Molly Weasley about cooking lessons—she imagined the ginger-haired witch would be more than pleased to have the Malfoys in a subordinate role to her in anything—and it had totally slipped her mind.

Nodding, Lucius turned on his heel, hiding a smug grin as he started toward the house. Draco peeled himself off the pillar and fell into step a few paces behind his father.

"Should've let them kill us," he said as he passed Hermione.

"And miss you doing manual labor? I think not."

Pausing midstride, he turned, meeting her gaze. The smirk curving his lips was as vindictive as it was prideful. "See? I knew you were getting some joy out of this."

Hermione swallowed hard, unable to find a response as he turned and continued on his way. Damn him! But, really, after all he'd put her through, could he really think there wasn't some justice in watching him work with his own two hands for a change? For him to know, himself, what things were like for his servants, or for Muggles who couldn't use magic to handle menial things?

Horribly, however, as her gaze followed Draco in an angry sweep, he neared Lucius. Still shirtless Lucius. Still shirtless Lucius with his broad shoulders and surprisingly nicely-lined back.

"Miss Granger?" Lucius spun back to face them as he stood in the doorway. He could tell by her startled expression and the sudden flare of color in her face that she'd been watching him. He held in a knowing chuckle—she was  _no_  match for him in this little game he was playing.

Oh, hell. He even knew he was making it a little obvious. It was more fun to let her think she might be a step ahead of him if she did figure him out.

Schooling her features, not quickly enough, she knew with an inward frown, she asked, "Yes, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Oh, nothing. I can't remember what I wanted to ask."

And like that, he turned and disappeared into the house. Draco followed behind him.

Cringing, Hermione waited for comment from either of the wizards behind her. When there was nothing but prolonged silence, she whirled to look at them. Both of them wore pensive expressions that she didn't like. That expression  _always_  meant she'd missed something.

"What?"

Harry puffed out his cheeks, shaking his head as he flicked a glance at Oliver, who mirrored the action. None of this was comforting to Hermione in the slightest.

"I don't know how to say this, but I feel like he did that on purpose."

Oliver snickered. "Looks like you did know how to say it."

"Oh, yeah." Harry laughed. "Guess I did."

"Wait, wait." She held up her hands in a sign of surrender. How had she gotten into all this again? Oh, right. She was trying to save her former enemies' lives. Merlin curse her compassionate nature. "Did what on purpose? The missing shirt fiasco just now?"

"It would make sense," Oliver said with a nod.

"I'm a Muggleborn, remember? Filthy little Mudblood? I doubt he even wants so much as my gaze on the parts of him that are visible while he's fully-clothed."

"Filthy little Mudblood who holds his life—and everything he ever owned—in her adorable and talented hands."

She tried not to grin at Oliver's odd compliment. "So you're saying—"

"He probably wants to get on your good side. And, given the rumors about the three of us, maybe he figures the way to your heart is through your knickers."

Her shoulders slumped. She'd leave alone that the three of them all knew those rumors were mostly true, anyway.

She was completely ignoring the idea of Lucius Malfoy getting anywhere near her knickers. "What do I do?"

"What's that Muggle saying?" Oliver tapped his chin in thought. "Cut him off at the pass?"

Harry nodded, grinning. "Right, right! He probably thinks a pretty young thing like you would be putty in his hands." He gave a wistful look, then. "Sort of wouldn't mind if he thought a pretty young thing like  _me_  would be putty in his hands."

Giving himself a shake, he met Hermione's gaze and then Oliver's. Though Oliver agreed, he could only shake his head. "Don't think he swings that way."

"I know," Harry answered with a soured expression.

"Can you two focus, please?" Hermione normally loved their sass and banter, but she was in no mood for such nonsense right now. Not when they were suggesting the Malfoy patriarch had designs on her, very physical and intimate designs.

"What are you saying I should do about this? I mean, if this is true?" She was still reluctant to believe it.

Harry and Oliver exchanged a glance. Each shrugging, they said in unison, "Let him."

She looked from one set of completely serious eyes to the other and back before she managed to sputter out a very confused, " _What?!"_

Grinning, Oliver clamped his hands over her shoulders. "If he thinks getting close to you will get him what he wants, let him get close . . . and then prove him wrong."

"I don't know. I'm having trouble imagining him doing what you're saying. I mean . . . this is Lucius Malfoy we're talking about. He'd probably sooner  _Avada_  his own bits off before using them to get his way from a Muggleborn witch."

"Well, there is that." Harry looked at Oliver. "We could be wrong about this."

Oliver nodded. "We could be, but for the sake of Hermione's wits, we should err on the side of caution."

Returning his attention to Hermione—who appeared to be losing her patience with them by visible increments—Harry shrugged once more. "Look, you're right. We could be completely off about this. So I suppose the only way to know for sure is to watch him. Keep track of how he acts around you."

"You mean get him to prove it?" she asked, trying to clarify.

Again, the wizards before her spoke in unison as they echoed, "Get him to prove it."


End file.
